


for what we are and what we'll be (I'll sing your praise eternally)

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (sort of again), (sort of), ADWD spoilers, AFFC spoilers, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Rescue Missions, Romance, jaime is totally brienne's damsel in distress okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where Cersei gets what she always wanted, Jaime doesn’t like it one bit and Brienne quite literally saves the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for what we are and what we'll be (I'll sing your praise eternally)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyoftarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyoftarth/gifts).



> written for the last got_exchange round - the prompt was _Cersei sits on the Iron Throne_ but the requested ship was Jaime/Brienne, so... uh. J/B with Cersei sitting on the Iron Throne happened. Also mind that my headcanon for post-ADWD Cersei is that she gets to sit on there *and* she completely loses it in the process and this kind of goes with it, so I just hope it's decent characterization. The title is from a Dropkick Murphys song, nothing belongs to me, this is all wishful thinking.

“I see that you finally got what you wanted, sweet sister,” Jaime says as he looks up at the blasted throne where Cersei is sitting.

It really was never supposed to go this way. He shouldn’t be standing at the bottom of the stairs with his wrists chained, and the fact that he lacks a hand has only made the guards bind them that much tighter. She shouldn’t be looking down at him as if she’s somehow so very disappointed, never mind that the short cropped hair that barely reaches her nape makes her look like an entirely different person. On the other side, her dress seems to have been made to compensate the poor state of her figure – other than the short hair, she’s a lot thinner than she had been back when he had seen her last. The dress reaches past her feet, and it’s a deep dark crimson with golden embroidery, and if it wasn’t for the way she’s smiling as if this is the happiest she’s ever been, she’d almost look small in it.

“No thanks to you,” Cersei replies, now looking condescendingly down at him. “And now I hear that you aided Sansa Stark get North?”

“You hear correctly, and I doubt there’s much you can do about it by now.”

When he sent Brienne North with her, after they rescued the girl from the Vale, it was common knowledge that her bastard brother wasn’t in fact just _Jon Snow_. No one would be so stupid to go to the Wall and fight someone who died, came back to life and wields a sword that everyone now has dubbed Lightbringer, and it’s common knowledge now that Sansa Stark is in fact at the Wall.

_I should have gone with them_ , he thinks, still looking up at Cersei, who’s staring at him as she actively despises him. _I thought I could still salvage something here, but I was obviously wrong._

“Father really was wrong,” Cersei finally answers, her lips quirking up in a smile that reminds him more of Aerys than of his sister herself. He can’t help shuddering at that, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “If only it had been me in your place.”

“You would have clamed that throne for yourself a long time ago, then. So, do you find the seat worth it?”

Cersei laughs out loud and he shudders again – that wasn’t the way she used to laugh when they were racing each other across the yards in Casterly Rock, or the way she used to laugh against his mouth before kissing him a lifetime ago. 

“With everything I had to give up for it? Of course it is.” She lovingly runs her fingers across one of the swords on her left side. “It’s all I had hoped for it to be.”

Everything I had to give up for it. 

Jaime should have just run for the Wall the moment he heard about her trial, about the infamous sir _Robert Strong_ winning Cersei her freedom, about another one of his children dying poisoned and about his sister’s reaction to it.

“So I assume you find it comfortable, don’t you?”

“Entirely,” she replies at once, and one of the swords on the right cuts through her dress, ruining the sleeve, and some blood falls down on the throne. She doesn’t even seem to notice it. “Why, didn’t you think the same?”

Jaime thinks about the only time he sat on the damn thing, his sword red with Aerys’s blood. He remembers how the seat was all hard stone and sharp angles, how gloomy it had felt to sit there with a body lying at its feet, about how it had made him feel sicker than killing his king had. Hells, the moment Ned Stark came inside the room he had sort of hoped he would claim the bloody seat for himself if he wasn’t too busy judging him, and when he hadn’t Jaime had thought to himself that the man was a hypocrite, but not an entirely stupid one. Who in their right mind would have fucking _wanted_ to sit on there every day for the rest of their life? Sure as the seven hells not him.

“I recall it being the most unpleasant experience of my life,” he finally answers, figuring that since he’s obviously not getting alive out of this situation he might as well tell the truth.

“Too bad for you,” Cersei says, her voice almost cheerful. “If only it wasn’t for Sansa Stark, I might even be merciful and forget the rest. But I cannot exactly forget that small thing, can I?”

“I’m not expecting you to.”

“Too bad, again. To think that I was willing to forget that you never came for me and to maybe accept your proposal.”

For a moment Jaime doesn’t get it. Then.

He laughs. He has to. “Cersei, I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

“ _You_ were the one who wanted to marry me. _Like the Targaryens used to._ ”

“I didn’t need a throne to do it, when I wanted to,” he answers, and when her eyes narrow, her mouth turning into a thin line, he knows he’s signed his death sentence.

“You wanted to?”

“I did. And yes, that means I wouldn’t now, though I suppose that what I want matters little.” He doesn’t say _who_ he has been thinking of during his lonely nights (or days) lately, rather than her. He’s already threading on very thin waters. Oh, he would have married her like the Targaryens used to do, but that was before he started thinking that maybe she was his own reflection in a mirror but that the mirror was so very cracked that he could barely distinguish what it was showing.

“You would suppose right.”

For a very long moment, neither of them speaks.

“Take him away,” Cersei finally says. “I need to think about how to properly deal with him.”

He glances back at her as he’s dragged outside. Her fingertips brush against one of the blades and bleed on her torn dress.

_Just like Aerys_ , he thinks before turning his face and looking down at his worn out shoes instead.

\--

Cersei probably had no clue that she had him locked in the room that had served as Brienne’s cell back when she brought him to King’s Landing that first time.

Jaime spends five days in it, barely sleeping, spending most of his time looking out of the window – the castle’s gardens look completely abandoned. Same as King’s Landing had – the Red Keep is still sort of lively and there are people walking in and about with some semblance of order, but outside it’s a complete mayhem and even if he had come in escorted by royal guards he had seen enough of it.

_Just like it was during the Rebellion._

Maybe it wasn’t a good thing that he had been the only one in his family witnessing it while being right in the thick of it.

Anyway, that’s not what he’s worried about now. His sister can have her throne and keep it until it lasts – not long, if it goes the way he suspects. What he hopes is that she decides what to do with him as soon as possible – he’s hardly going to try to escape, not that he could get anywhere, and if he has to die for crossing Cersei and sending Sansa Stark to safety so be it. He’s entirely ready to be done with everything, and patience if he has some regrets or if he would have liked to talk to the wench one last time, if only because after the whole part where she had almost led him into a trap she had spent the rest of the time they used to search for Sansa Stark looking guilty or apologetic. He had been angry at first, but – well, she did tell him before they got there, she had bargained for his life to the point where she managed to convince the bloody living corpse of Catelyn Stark to give them some time to search for the girl so that she’d know they meant it.

And for that matter, he stopped being angry at her the moment one of the people in the Brotherhood told him that she almost was about to let them hang her for _him_ , but he never told her any of that and now he wishes he had, if only because she didn’t deserve to meet her death fighting an army of undead people at the Wall without knowing it.

Then again, considering who is in charge at the Wall, she has more chances to survive this mess than he has, and the thought doesn’t make him feel angry at all – hells, out of the two of them she’s the one who deserves to survive this entire mess, so he’ll try to see the positive side of it.

The only positive side.

On day five, some knight wearing a white cloak barges inside the room – Jaime has no clue of who that is, but it just shows that the Kingsguard is a jape, these days.

As if it hasn’t been for a long time, he thinks bitterly.

The man stares at him uncomfortably, as if he has no clue of how to break news that Jaime doesn’t want to hear.

“Ser, get the fuck on with it,” Jaime finally says to spare him the effort of starting the conversation. “I haven’t been expecting any good news since I set foot in this room, you might as well say your piece.”

The man takes a breath. Then resolutely looks at the wall and not at him.

“You are to die two days from now. Her Grace wishes to know if you have any last requests.”

“Fine. Get lost.”

The knight complies at once and locks the door on his way out, of course.

_Last requests_. He almost wants to laugh, but there’s really nothing funny about it. Maybe he should have asked to send a raven to the Wall, but he highly doubts that Cersei wouldn’t have wanted to read the letter first, and that’s the last thing he needs to happen right now.

No last requests, then.

\--

Regardless, when his door opens two days later as the sun rises, he can’t help thinking about that letter he would have written, if he had been sure no one would have read it before it was sent.

When he’s brought out in the open, he sees a path opened in front of him that brings to Baelor’s sept. There are people on either side – most of them look starved and their clothes are in pieces, and all look at him with distaste and maybe a bit of excitement. Of course. A nice execution can do wonders, when you want to distract the smallfolk from more pressing matters. He keeps his head high and walks forward, the ropes that bind his wright wrist to his left so tight that he can feel them chafing against skin and making it bleed.

So he tries to distract himself. He ponders how he would have opened the letter. _My dearest wench_ sounds pretty horrible, and all things considered maybe it’s nowhere near appropriate in a letter that is supposed to be his dying wish. He can stand not to jape about it, for once.

_Brienne_ , he would start. Yes, it sounds better, at least. _I do entirely regret to say that when you read this I will certainly be dead, but I guess you had imagined that already. I do also entirely admit that you were right when you told me I was being an idiot if I thought that going back to King’s Landing was a good idea. Then again, I was never one for doing the smart thing, wasn’t I?_

It’s kind of fitting that no one is screaming or talking too loudly. He can hear whispers of _kingslayer_ every now and then.

Gods, how he hates it.

_So, it appears that I’m going to lose my head very soon and not many people will weep for it. I won’t either, for one, but then again it means that at least I get a nice, quick death and it’s not while freezing on the top of a wall waiting for dead men to come and get me. One should always see the best in ever situation, shouldn’t he?_

He’s halfway to the sept now, and he’s nowhere near sure that he likes the letter this far. Seven hells, he might as well go for the truth. It’s not like it’s ever going to leave his head to move to a piece of paper, so what’s the harm?

_The truth is that I’d rather be freezing my bones over there – at least I’d be doing something useful instead of meeting this rather unceremonious end at my sister’s hands, but it’s too late now. It’s also too late for the long missive you would deserve to get, but I can’t provide it. I just want you to know I don’t blame you for lying to me about Lady Stoneheart and that while I’m not glad about meeting my end now, I’m quite certain I’m glad that you aren’t meeting yours ahead of time for the bloody likes of me. Yes, I know about it, and no, you should have never even thought about it. Please try not to get killed and if you survive this war, just marry bloody Hyle Hunt – he does care about you and you deserve at least that, in lack of anything better._

Now he’s almost there. Cersei is standing on the stairs, still wearing that red and gold dress. People glance at her as if they’re terrified.

Jaime doesn’t want to know why.

_My time is really ticking short now, so I can’t go on much longer. Wench, I’d lie if I said that I don’t hope that at least you might spare a thought or two for me once in a while, mostly because you probably are the only person that would, so – I hope you do. But if you don’t, I won’t be angry for it. Have the great life you deserve and don’t get yourself killed out of bloody honor, all right? You’re a lot better than that._

_Goodbye._

That would have done decently, he thinks.

He takes a deep breath and raises his head to meet Cersei’s eyes, and that’s when he notices who took Ilyn Payne’s place.

Oh, no. He’s not letting some abomination that – if whispers are right – used to be Gregor Clegane of all people take off his head without a fight.

“So,” Cersei asks after a moment, “are you sure you have no last wish before we get on with this? Far from me to say I cannot be merciful, if I wish to.”

Jaime stares straight at her and forces himself not to glance anywhere else.

“If it please Her Grace, I would like a trial by battle. I will undoubtedly lose, but I would rather die with a sword in my hand than kneeling down for your executioner.”

“You _do_ realize you would be fighting against him.”

“Whoever Her Grace wishes.”

The corner of Cersei’s mouth quirks up slightly. “And you would do that yourself? I hear you might not find it that easy, ser.”

“As if I had anyone I could ask. I will do that myself, Cersei. Just get on with it.”

“Fine. Someone give him a sword. At least this will be entertaining.”

Jaime keeps on looking at her, but there’s… absolutely nothing of the Cersei he loved in her. It’s not the hair, it’s not the appearance, it’s the way she’s looking at him. As if now that she’s finally where she wanted, without having to be a king’s wife or a king’s mother to get to that place, she really doesn’t care about anything else.

Maybe something else happened when he wasn’t there, but why should he have gone back if she remembered his existence just when she needed him?

Someone pulls the ropes off his hands and thrusts a sword into his left hand. His fingers are so numb that he almost lets it fall on the ground.

_It’s not going to be a long fight if these are the premises_ , he thinks, wrapping his fingers tighter around the hilt –

“He has a champion, if he wants her.”

The crowd falls silent as someone cloaked in a battered blue hood makes their way through it, headed for the steps.

It was a woman’s voice. And the person is a lot taller than most people they’re walking past.

Before Jaime can say anything, they’re walking up to the steps and pulling down the hood, ignoring him and staring straight at Cersei.

Good gods, it _is_ Brienne. Her skin is covered in dirt and she obviously hasn’t had a bath in a long time, her clothes are completely worn-out, she isn’t even wearing armor and the scarring flesh on her cheek looks even redder in the pale sunlight of the morning.

“Now this is an interesting development,” Cersei says staring down at Brienne from her position – she can only because some guards are preventing Brienne from walking up the stairs, or otherwise she couldn’t do it. The steps aren’t that high. “Isn’t _that_ the infamous beauty of Tarth?”

Brienne doesn’t flinch at all at the tone.

“In the flesh, Your Grace.”

“I see that whoever named you like that must have been blind.”

“I have been thinking the same for years,” Brienne replies, sounding completely unfazed, and – once she wouldn’t have, Jaime thinks, but maybe now, after everything that went down, she just doesn’t care. “And the way I am called does not matter now, does it?”

“I suppose it would not. So tell me, my lady, why should I let you do this instead of telling those guards to throw you in a dungeon?”

Brienne keeps on staring straight at her. “Nothing, I should suppose. And you may do whatever you want with me, after this matter is resolved.”

Cersei stops smiling at that, and hells but Jaime hopes that she isn’t thinking what _he_ imagines she is, because if that’s the case neither of them are getting out of here alive and he’d really rather die knowing that Brienne isn’t coming with him.

When she grins all of a sudden all over again, though, Jaime could swear that she looks exactly like Aerys used to all over again.

“By all means then, _my lady_. Do come up here and fight my own champion. I suppose it should make for decent entertainment.”

The guards let Brienne go and she walks quickly up the stairs, throwing the cloak on the ground and moving next to Jaime first and in front of him later.

At that, he can’t help himself. “Wench, damn you, don’t do this. You do know that thing can’t die, or have you not heard anything about him yet?”

“I know enough,” Brienne replies calmly. “How about you get behind me and let me deal with it, Lannister? My sword is quite sharp, this time.”

“You will wish it was as easy as that bear,” Jaime says, but then he takes a step behind and relinquishes his sword to a guard. If anything, she’s definitely going to last longer than him, as tired as she looks.

The crowd looks plenty excited now. Jaime thinks he wants to throw up, but he’s hardly in the position to, isn’t he?

Robert Strong, or Gregor Clegane, or whoever that thing is, doesn’t waste time – the moment Cersei says they may begin, he goes straight for Brienne with a leap that makes Jaime glad they’re standing on stone – if it had been wood, it would have probably broken down.

He’s also pretty sure that if Brienne’s sword hadn’t been made of Valyrian Steel it might have shattered under the blow’s strength, but she manages to block it once, then twice, then thrice, and Jaime has no clue of how she can do it when she’s visibly tired, but at least she isn’t dead yet, is she? She keeps on moving around and merely blocking his blows, and for a moment he wonders if she’s suicidal – she has to know that her opponent doesn’t get tired. But when he realizes that Strong seems to get madder and madder every time Brienne blocks an attack, maybe he thinks he can see the strategy. Sure as the seven hells _ser Robert Strong_ isn’t going to be the kind of warrior that can think on an elaborate strategy beyond attacking and hoping to smash his opponent into bits thanks to sheer force, so maybe she wants to exasperate him and then try to land one well-placed blow at the right time. All good, except that if it’s true that Cersei won her own trial also because her champion always rose back up every time he was stabbed in vital places it might not be enough.

Jaime keeps on watching Brienne dodge and block and dodge all over again, and he hears some people in the crowd complaining about how boring the fight is, and Jaime almost wants to shout _try it yourself_ , but he’s hardly in a position to complain.

Then again, for being a supposedly boring fight, it’s over very, very quickly.

Jaime had been so concentrated in hoping that Brienne would manage to block or dodge every time that he hadn’t even realized that she might have been moving a certain way on purpose. It’s not until both she and her opponent are standing next to one of the torches that is kept alight even if it’s day – because lately nights have been lasting a lot longer than they used to and it’s less of a waste to keep them on fire all the time – that he starts suspecting that she had been wanting to get there all along.

Strong – or Clegane – launches in the umpteenth leap, and he looks entirely mad even if he isn’t making a sound (and that’s the most unsettling thing of all) – and then Brienne raises up Oathkeeper with just one hand, blocking the attack again but not moving at all as she does.

Jaime thinks, _is she mad, she can’t keep him at bay long enough with just one hand, she can’t be that strong_ , and a moment later she reaches on her left side, grabs the torch and thrusts it into Strong’s open, undefended side.

Then she grabs the hilt of her sword and jumps back, and just in time, because Strong’s clothes catch fire in a moment, and he can only take a couple of steps before falling down to his knees and let himself burn without emitting a single sound, all over again.

There’s a certain eerie silence all around the crowd – Cersei looks livid, and Brienne looks even more tired, but there’s no doubt of who has won the trial. The thing, Jaime knows, is that Cersei isn’t going to let any of them go, regardless of that.

So he inches closer to Brienne, keeping his voice to the lowest tone he can, hoping that the sound of the fire burning through Ser Robert Strong covers it.

“I’m going to jump over the guard on the rear and take his sword,” he whispers. “Cover me?”

She gives him a small, imperceptible nod.

“Now,” she answers under her breath, and Jaime doesn’t need to be told twice.

The last thing the guard was expecting was for Jaime to punch him in the face with his left hand and then grab the sword, and the ones behind don’t even try to attack, not when Brienne is behind him with Oathkeeper drawn out, and he can already see the crowd parting for them – he doubts anyone wants to chance going against them, and he wishes he could spare time to pay attention to what Cersei is saying – he’s sure he hears _you don’t get to run_ , but he doesn’t have it and this situation isn’t going to last that much longer, not if the guards decide to go after them after all, and so the moment he’s down the stairs he runs, the sword still drawn out.

Then Brienne walks ahead of him, going straight for two other guards with horses – she must have purposefully picked two ones which are still green boys (she must have done recon before heading for the steps, Jaime realizes), because the two don’t even wait for the two of them to get there. They just jump down and run to the side.

Jaime isn’t questioning his luck – he manages to get on the horse just using his left hand, and then follows Brienne’s. She heads for the nearest gate out of King’s Landing, her sword still drawn out, looking for all purposes like she will kill anyone who stands in her way. He knows she wouldn’t, but the image is still striking, and for a moment he feels sort of sad that no singer is around to witness this, or songs about this stunt would be quick to circulate in King’s Landing’s taverns.

The guards at the gate don’t even attempt to put on a fight – they just leave it open for them to pass through.

Jaime just grabs the horse’s reins tighter with his left hand and follows.

\--

They don’t stop until the horses can’t literally take another step anymore, but it’s been a long time since they left King’s Landing – the sun is up in the sky and it must be around midday, so they should have put enough distance to afford some rest.

Brienne gets down on the ground and falls sitting against a tree, breathing in and out as if she’s about to faint, and why wouldn’t she. She’s the one who’s done most of the work.

Jaime follows suit and falls down sitting next to her, trying to catch his breath as well.

“Has anyone told you lately that you completely lost your wits?” And fine, maybe that wasn’t the way he thought he’d start, and he should be thanking her instead, but trust his mouth to betray him. “I mean, not that I’m not grateful, but what in the seven hells were you thinking? And weren’t you supposed to be at the Wall?”

“Do not worry, ser,” she replies, sounding maybe amused, and still out of breath. “I was at the Wall, in fact. And everyone told me I had completely lost my wits when after a few days I decided that I should follow you to King’s Landing.”

“… _Sorry_?”

“I told you it was a bad idea. Also, the day after you left a raven came from King’s Landing describing the situation in detail and I just knew that the moment you arrived you would end up signing your own death sentence. I tried to ignore it for the next few days and then I could not anymore. And good thing I did not wait much longer, or I would have been too late.”

“I wish I could disagree,” Jaime sighs. “I still don’t know how you even managed to best _that_ … thing, I suppose. I don’t even know how I should name it.”

“The ravens said that he would not die if hit in vital places and that he would always rise if struck. And that he would barely make a sound. It sounded rather similar to the Others they’re fighting up at the Wall and I did stay there long enough to learn that they die if set on fire.”

“But you didn’t know for sure.”

“No, not for certain.”

“Wench, not that I’m flattered, but you really should stop with this business where you come this close to die because I am somehow involved.”

“Sorry?”

“I know that you almost let Catelyn Stark hang you because of me, and that was remarkably stupid of you.”

She shrugs minutely. “I won’t even ask how you know it, but I do not regret having done that and I do not regret having done this now.”

He can’t help grinning just a bit at that – it’s such a thing she would say, isn’t it?

“Believe me, wench, I don’t either,” he says, and maybe he sounds as tired as she looks, but now that he’s finally able to take a moment to breathe he feels his chest become slightly tighter, and if only he could wrap his head about the fact that _she came down to King’s Landing from the Wall for him_ maybe it wouldn’t feel like this. Maybe.

“Actually, I have been entirely not courteous.”

“Sorry?”

“You save my life twice in a day when it’s not even sunset and I only insult you?”

“I wasn’t expecting any less,” she answers, her mouth slightly quirking up in a small but maybe fond grin, and Jaime doesn’t know when she ended up knowing him this well, and when he moves forward he’s entirely meaning to kiss her cheek – nothing better than that to show that he knows what being courteous means after all, right?

Except that when he’s inches from her she’s looking at him with wide blue eyes as if she has no clue of what he’s doing, and it’s a complete change from the way she stared at Robert Strong – or Gregor Clegane, or whoever in the seven hells he was – while she was fighting him. Then she was sure of herself, she seemed to be balancing every option and she looked every inch like the knight she should be officially, now she looks completely confused and that just won’t do.

So maybe in the history of impulsive decisions that has more or less shaped Jaime’s life, kissing her on the mouth instead is probably the smartest one, all things considered.

That said, it’s not that great of a kiss – she’s not expecting it, and he doesn’t push it if only because he doesn’t want to force her if that’s not the way she wants it, even if he maybe really hopes it is, so he moves away before she can kiss back.

Now she’s looking at him completely differently, though. She looks maybe wary, but on the other side she seems… hopeful? Maybe? He knows he has no bloody experience with women looking at him like that, because Cersei never really had to feel doubtful about the way he felt about her, hadn’t she?

“As strange as it might sound, that was entirely serious,” he finally blurts out. “And I’m not – I didn’t do it because I owe you.”

“Why then?”

“… because I wanted to, how about it?”

She breathes in once, sharply, her eyes going even wider, and for one it doesn’t look like she wants to punch him in the face for it.

Then she reaches up with her left hand, the one that had held the torch – her fingertips are slightly burned, but of course they are – she grabbed the thing at the top rather than the bottom. He goes entirely still when she touches his face, almost reverently, and it makes him feel all kinds of strange, but at least none of them is bad.

“You – you said you dreamed of me once.” He can barely hear her, considering how low her voice is.

“I did, and I wasn’t lying for that matter. And if you really want to know, it was a dream where you ended up being the only reason I didn’t die in it.” He’s not going to dwell into the details – he doesn’t need to think about it.

“I – I did too. More than once, but – one of those times.” She stops, then breathes in again, and the moves slightly closer. “And if you really want to know, it was a dream where you ended up putting a – a rainbow guard’s cloak on me.”

She looks as if she’s mildly embarrassed of it, and maybe she is, but – wait a moment. Never mind the part where she’s talking about Renly’s guard, since _Renly_ wasn’t the one doing any deed.

Oh. He feels so bloody unworthy of it that for a moment he has no clue of what to say.

Then he figures that since today it hasn’t served him too bad after al, maybe he should just go without overthinking it.

“If I say that I wouldn’t be against doing that, if I actually could? Because as it is the reverse would probably be easier.”

The last thing he had expected was Brienne almost lurching forward as her mouth collides against his, and it’s plain obvious that she hasn’t kissed anyone other than him, but she’s a relatively quick study, and she kisses him like she’s been waiting entirely too long for it, and that feeling in his chest starts to change from constricting to something else he can’t quite pinpoint. But it’s good, it’s making him feel warmer, and when they part he takes a small breath before diving down again, feeling it entirely as her hands on the side of his face shake ever so slightly.

“So,” he finally says after he has to move away the second time, “I hope you had a plan beyond running, because if you think that there aren’t people running after us right now then you’re wrong.”

“I was planning on going back North, if you were amenable.”

“To the Wall?”

“If we get there, no one is going to try to attempt catching us once we reach it. And when I left I was told that if I did manage to both save your life and keep mine that I was welcome to come back, and if you had to come with they could stand to use someone with military experience even if it was you.” She’s slightly smiling as she says that, and maybe it shows her crooked teeth but he really likes the sight.

“I can’t bloody believe that going to kill undead people is the best option of the lot, but why not. It should be quite engaging.”

“ _Engaging_.”

“What’s more engaging and songs-worthy than fighting an army of Others while freezing in the snow and wearing black clothes? Also, I never had a commander that was also some kind of god – that should be entirely worth my time. Of course it doesn’t hurt that you’d be the only person in Westeros mad enough to agree with me.”

“I don’t quite think _engaging_ is the word I would use, but gods help me, I would agree with you on the rest.”

“Good. Now next time try not to get yourself killed so that you can agree with me later, how about that?”

She shakes her head and one of her hands brushes away a strand of hair from his forehead. “I am quite afraid I can’t quite stop, but if _you_ would try not to get yourself killed first maybe it might be easier.”

“You might have a point,” Jaime admits, and then he leans down and kisses her again, figuring that even if they really should leave they couldn’t do it for now, not when the horses are still worn down. Maybe they can find an inn later, and if they do he could do more than kissing, and gods but he wants to, now that he knows he can do it, and the way she’s running her burned fingertips through his dirty hair is doing things to him that make his stomach clench in the good way.

He wishes he had done this long before – maybe it doesn’t make him a good person that he wishes he hadn’t put the both of them in danger with that trip to King’s Landing that only made him realize that Cersei was lost to him same as the rest of his family, and in what way, but he still wishes he had just stayed in the first place. As it is, though, he really is glad he’s not dead yet.

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that, though,” he finally says after a while when his lips are feeling numb in an entirely good way.

“I’m not,” she replies curtly, sounding so very sure of it.

He doesn’t say _just don’t try to do that again_ – if he thought that the time where they both risk their neck is over then he would really be an idiot. He doesn’t even say, _in the North they don’t need to exchange cloaks, they just need a tree_ – he has learned to not make this kind of promise if he doesn’t know if he can keep it, never mind that he would mean it.

Instead he does what he should have done in the beginning and presses his mouth against the scarred flesh of her cheek. She makes a sound that might have been a sigh or not, pressing up against him, and when he feels her fingertips run over the back of his left hand before tentatively tangling with his own, he grasps them back.

End.


End file.
